Chapter 10

 

 

 

“Where to, Your Grace?” his driver asked through the open sliding window.

Christian clutched the leather strap on the door and pulled it close. “Backchurch Lane.”

The carriage moved forward, for Michaels knew exactly where to go. The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves kept him company as he journeyed toward Whitechapel.

God above, that kiss.

Having her take the lead had thrilled him, arousing him to the point of discomfort. She must have known, for she had ground against his stiff cock eagerly. Christian moaned at the thought of it. No amount of caution could stop him from returning such a guileless and passionate kiss. The desire that flamed between them could have consumed the surrounding buildings.

And then, for her to impulsively kiss him again just now? His passion had flared to unknown heights. He wanted to kiss her.

Now.

And more, so much more.

Christian was utterly captivated.

It was best that he kept his emotions to himself for the time being.

See where this will lead, indeed.

For Eleanora was attracted to him, perhaps as much as he was to her, there was no denying it.

Meanwhile, he would keep offering his services in assisting the investigation. For all the reasons he had stated. But most importantly, to be near Eleanora. Revel in her bold presence. For a chance to hold those luscious curves in his arms once again.

When had he ever had such a reaction to a woman?

Never. Ever.

Once they arrived at Backchurch Lane, his driver climbed down and opened the door for him.

“The usual time, Your Grace?”

“Yes, one hour. You can stay here or get yourself a bite to eat at the tavern on the corner.” He slipped a handful of shillings into Michaels’ gloved hand.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Christian sprinted up the steps and was immediately permitted to enter. The madam, dressed in a shimmering emerald green satin gown, smiled warmly.

“It has been a while, Your Grace. Care to make your selection?”

Christian made a superficial glance toward the seven women gathered together in the small parlor. He didn’t particularly care and pointed toward a curvy, brassy blonde. “Her.”

Once in the room, the best the small brothel had to offer, the prostitute started to unhook her corset.

“No,” he growled. “I want none of that.”

He tore off his coat, hat, and gloves and sat in the large plush chair. He patted his lap. “I want you to sit here, put your arms around me, and hold me. That’s all I want. No talking, no touching, except your arms around me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied demurely.

“What happens here is not to be repeated. I know you all like to exchange war stories. But you will not mention me—ever. I have ways of finding out.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Christian patted his lap once again. The prostitute sat, curled up next to him, placing her plump arms about his waist as she laid her head against his chest. Thankfully she was not heavily perfumed. All he could detect was fresh soap. The warmth of her spread through him.

He needed this.

The tender touch of another.

Affection, though feigned on both sides. Christian laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

During the next hour, he basked in the human contact. Pretending it was Eleanora that was holding him, nuzzled against his chest. That it was her heartbeat working in unison with his. That it was her breath expelling in short bursts.

For he was desperately lonely.

Hiding inside of him was a vast emptiness. It could not be filled by all the women in London, regardless of class. Christian relived over and over the fierce kiss in the alley and the quick one in the carriage. For a brief moment—one forever seared in his mind—he experienced a fiery heat that had ignited him straight to the toes of his boots.

Could Eleanora Galway be the one woman to fill his vacant heart?

Why would such an intrepid, confident, independent woman want with a needy bastard like him? If he were smart, he would cut all ties, find another agency to investigate this case before he made a right idiot of himself.

He had an expected duty to see to: marry well.

Instead of traipsing about the streets of London with a lady detective, he should be seeing to the task of securing a future duchess. And he should do this before he made the grave mistake of falling for the delightful Eleanora.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Althea was pacing about the parlor. Brookton, the misogynistic marquess and heir to a duke, was close to an hour late. There was no tea service, nor an offer of cake or biscuits, for Althea had stated that she wanted this done and the man gone in a manner of minutes. Eleanora agreed with the terms. All Eleanora would be is an observer and take notes.

“My dear, you are making me nervous. Come and sit down,” Eleanora said. “I reiterate, we should not place a time limit on this meeting.”

“No. The sooner he is out of here, the better.”

“Why?”

Althea plopped into the chair, exhaling. “I cannot bear to look at him. Outwardly, the man is too perfectly gorgeous. Inside? I will lay coin there is an empty pit, with an unquestionable rot of what is probably left of his soul.”

Eleanora arched an eyebrow. “Gorgeous? I cannot deny the truth of it, but there is more to this. I’ve never seen you so agitated. It is as if you’re excited by him coming here but also dreading it.”

Althea shook her head sadly. “Oh, Ellie. I don’t know what to think. Is it possible to be simultaneously aroused and disgusted by a man? I’ve never experienced such a range of conflicting emotions before.” She looked up at Eleanora. “Or perhaps you can relate? I’ve never seen you shimmer with such excitement as you did yesterday with the duke.”

“Yes, I can certainly relate, though Allenby does not disgust me. What is wrong with us? Attracted to clients—and peers for God’s sake.” Eleanora shook her head in disbelief.

“We cannot involve ourselves in the lives of these troubled men,” Althea stated firmly. “The less we have to do with them, the better. Blast it all for finding pretty men appealing. It is a fatal flaw in my character, to be sure.”

And mine as well.

The front bell clanged and Althea froze. Mrs. Bartle was here today, and moments later, she escorted Brookton into the room.

“His lordship, the Marquess of Brookton,” the housekeeper announced imperiously.

Brookton entered the room, and Mrs. Bartle’s eyes widened, fanning herself for only the sisters to see. Yes, he certainly lit up a room with his glorious presence—and he well knew it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bartle,” Eleanora replied.

The housekeeper closed the door.

Althea pointed to the table. “Take a seat.” Her sister wasn’t going to “My lord” him every sentence.

“No refreshments? Or offer to take my coat?” he sniffed.

“You won’t be staying long enough,” Althea replied coldly.

After she sat; Eleanora pulled the ink, pen, and paper closer and studied Brookton. His eyes were glassy. Not enough sleep? Too much drink? A little of both? His clothes and toilette were impeccable, the man had a top-notch valet, but he also took care of his appearance. A touch narcissistic? How could he not be?

He sat, slouching in his seat, the complete picture of an indolent peer who was bored to tears and would rather be anywhere else but here.

Eleanora sniffed the air. Expensive cologne, an enticing woodsy blend, but she could not ascertain any alcohol. He also did not exhibit traits of an excessive drinker. There was no indication of reddened and distended veins on the nose and cheeks, the paunch around the middle, or yellowed skin.

Brookton was a virile and healthy specimen, at least at first glance.

“Do you frequent an establishment known as The Chrysalis?” Althea asked.

Eleanora dipped her pen in the ink bottle and started writing.

“Yes.”

“Were you acquainted intimately with a prostitute going by the name of Lucinda?”

“Yes.”

Althea glared at Brookton. The marquess looked aggravated as well. “Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“We are here to establish if there is anything you can recall that might be a catalyst for the delivery of a body part.” Althea’s tone was abrupt. Try as she might, she couldn’t remain detached and professional.

This behavior was not like her sister at all. Both her and Althea were swimming in dangerous, emotional waters. Eleanora could not look away from either the marquess or her sister, as their encounter fascinated her to no end.

Brookton pursed his lips. “Be damned if I will sit here and rehash my past for your amusement. I have had many encounters. Because of it, I have no idea if anyone was offended enough to play such a grisly prank. And at the end of the day, I do not care. I’m only here because Allenby insisted. I cannot be of any assistance to you.” Brookton picked up his gloves as if to depart.

“Then what about your scandalous affair with the actress and her twin brother? Either at the same time or separately. Do you prefer both men and women?”

“So what if I do?”

“It is nothing to me. In the book Psychopathia Sexualis, written by Richard von Krafft-Ebing in eighteen eighty-six, he claims that those who prefer both genders are bi-sexual. Would you say you belong in this category?”

Eleanora drew in a sharp breath.

My God, Althea.

So caught up in this exchange, Eleanora had not taken any notes. How tempting to interject, but she remained silent, her gaze moving back and forth between them. The air in the room crackled with energy.

Brookton’s jaw dropped open, but he hastily recovered. “Good Christ,” he muttered.

“I ask such a probing question because a three-way relationship could cause resentment, jealousy, and ultimately, retaliation.”

“You are basing this invasion into my private life on society gossip? I was briefly involved with the actress. It lasted two weeks and ended four months ago. Her brother was not part of the affair. As far as my preferences, there were sexual activities in my past where men were participants. If that makes me bi-sexual, so be it. If you must know, I prefer women, but I also do not deny myself any pleasure.” He slapped his gloves on the table, then placed them upon it.

“I have heard of these worthless books,” he continued, clearly annoyed. “They believe any act of sex outside the purpose of marital procreation is depraved. This prudish society already harbors an unhealthy attitude about sex. These so-called scholars are exacerbating the problem.”

Well, the marquess was not wrong. Their father had often stated the books were merely one person’s opinion and not necessarily based on any particular fact. Perhaps she should bear such advice in mind when dealing with these peers. There could be something inside this man besides the superficial devil-may-care rake.

“Why stuffy virgins would read such claptrap is beyond me. I believe on-hand experience is always best.” He gave Althea a wicked grin.

Then again, perhaps the surface was the essence of this man after all.

“I would not be surprised to hear that you have a portrait in the attic,” Althea murmured crossly.

His smile evaporated. “I am beyond weary of the Dorian Gray references. It’s not amusing. And it is insulting. I may be debauched, but I would never sink to the depths of that gothic fictional character. Why I’m explaining myself to you—either of you—I have no idea.” He ran his hands through his golden hair. “Do you have anything else? Any more salacious tidbits of tattle to regale me with?”

Brookton’s voice shook on the last sentence. Althea was getting under his skin. For once, he was not the perennially jaded aristocrat. Perhaps some elaborate brew of emotion lurked below the surface after all.

The marquess was a puzzle, and Eleanora could see why Althea was fascinated. It also was a warning that they shouldn’t become too involved in the lives of these troubled men.

Yes, troubled.

Althea had the right of it.

The more Eleanora studied Brookton, the more she concluded that he was not suffering from excessive drink or opiates but rather a disquiet of the soul. The dark circles, barely noticeable on his flawless skin, spoke of a lack of sleep. Granted, it could be from his sexual vices—worn out from all the illicit activity—but Eleanora believed it was more.

Perhaps Althea had come to the same conclusion, for her expression softened.

“Let us return to The Chrysalis. That first night when we mentioned the butterfly tattoo on the ankle, you knew that it could be a woman employed at The Chrysalis. Why didn’t you mention it?” her sister asked.

Brookton sighed. “I have no idea why. It seemed far-fetched. Apparently, it was not.”

“There were two ladies with this tattoo that left the employ of the brothel in the past year. Lucinda and Eurydice. You had an acquaintance with both?” she asked.

“My, how thorough you are.” His tone was sarcastic, and Althea bristled.

“We are paid to be so. The question, if you please?”

Brookton tapped his fingers on the desk. “Yes, on multiple occasions for at least a year before they departed. I found other amusements elsewhere. I haven’t been to The Chrysalis in many months.”

Eleanora turned her attention back to her notes.

“And what can you tell me of the Isle of Sheppey about fourteen years past?”

“Who told you of that?” Brookton snapped. “Allenby, I suppose. The miserable wretch. I have no memory of that night.”

Pinpoints of red dotted his skin. His mouth curled into a sneer. Now he was angry. Eleanora was caught up in the discussion once again. No wonder Althea and Sybil took all the notes; she was rubbish at it.

“I only wish to know if you have had any contact with Ford Whitney outside of the few letters his father passed on to you all over the past several years.”

Brookton blinked twice, his incredibly long lashes brushing against his high cheekbones. Or at least they appeared to do so in Eleanora’s mind.

“You believe Whitney may be behind this? It makes no sense. Granted, he disappeared rather suddenly after that night, but his letters were genial enough.”

“You have answered his letters personally?” Althea asked.

“No. The letter was to all of us. I believe Allenby answered on our behalf. Whitney has a new life far from here. All is well with him. It’s been years since we heard from him. I say good luck to him.”

“Now, as to Hayes Addington, a body was never found, correct? Is there a possibility he hadn’t drowned at all and is now out for revenge?”

Brookton’s jaw dropped. Then he burst into laughter. “My God, what an overactive imagination you have, Miss Galway.” The laughter ceased, then he gave her a dubious look. “Fourteen years. Why would he stay away and allow his inherited title to be passed on to someone else? Give up the money his father had left him? His identity, his place in society?”

Althea shrugged. “Perhaps he washed ashore, unable to recall his identity, lost in the haze of amnesia. He only recently regained his memory and blames you all for his change in circumstance. Addington wants you all to suffer, to have your lives upended as his was.”

Eleanora smiled at Althea with admiration. She had to hand it to her sister. Althea’s questioning of Brookton was far more effective and probing than Eleanora’s interview with Christian. What a bloody wonderful assessment. Far-fetched? Maybe yes—or maybe no. Eleanora had thought of the same thing but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

Bravo, Althea.

“I believe, Miss Galway, you have read one too many potboilers,” he scoffed.

Althea let the sarcastic comment pass. “So, to sum up, no one has made any threat toward you—no matter how harmless?”

“Not that I can recall. I will think on it and inform you if I recall anything of import.”

“Any aspect of your debauchery we should be concerned with in relation to the parcel?”

Brookton raised an eyebrow. “You seem a little too curious about my private sex life, Miss Galway. What do you believe—that I have a deviant bent along the lines of engaging in sex with those that have limbs missing?”

Althea’s eyebrows shot up. “That is a thing?”

Brookton stood, pulling on his leather gloves. “To some, nothing is off the table as far as sex is concerned. Good afternoon, Miss Galway. Miss Galway.”

“Wait…” In rising, Althea’s long skirt entangled with the toe of her boot and the rung of the chair. Althea reached out to grab the edge of the table to stem her fall, but she couldn’t get a solid grip on it.

Instead of hitting the floor, strong arms held her upright and enfolded her into a masculine embrace. It happened so swiftly; Eleanora had no time to respond.

“Are you all right?” the marquess murmured to Althea, genuine concern in his tone.

“Do not think this is some parlor trick to have you rescue me from a faux fall. I don’t play games,” she whispered into the folds of his silky cravat.

Brookton nuzzled Althea’s neck. “I would not care if it was a game.”

Time stopped or appeared to.

A soft sigh—or was it a moan? —escaped Althea’s lips.

“Sister, are you well?” Eleanora asked. Trapped in the man’s spell, Althea remained silent. What were the odds? Both of them attracted to a duke and an heir to a duke?

Entirely inappropriate. And unwise.

They both turned to stare at her as if they had forgotten she was in the room.

“Yes. I stumbled, that is all,” Althea replied, her voice shaky.

Brookton gently grasped Althea’s upper arms and took a step back.

The spell—or whatever it was—shattered and dissipated into the ether.

Brookton’s pristine features settled into his usual detached look. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

After he bowed, he turned so briskly his long coat whipped about his legs.

He was gone.

Althea touched her flushed cheeks.

“My dear—” Eleanora began.

Althea waved her arm rapidly. “Give me a moment.” Her sister grabbed the chair and sat, her breathing ragged. “We must refuse to go any further with this case.”

“I do not agree. This is the most exciting one we’ve ever had. The money we are making from this can keep us going for a year. When we close this case successfully—and we will—think of the rich clients.”

Althea arched her eyebrow. “Is that all you care about, the money? Or are you smitten with the Duke of Allenby?”

Eleanora exhaled. “You and I tell each other everything. So, I will be honest. It’s a little of both. He intrigues me. And from what I’ve witnessed here, Brookton intrigues you. Falling into his arms, Sister?”

“I did trip; I do not play such wily games. Intrigue? My God. He’s everything I loathe in a man: his wealthy class, his arrogance, his blasé lifestyle, he’s immoral to his core. By his own admission!”

Althea scowled, then sighed. “You’re correct. We need this money and the possible future clients. But know this: I can never be alone with Brookton, for there lays the danger. To my sanity and most especially my heart.” Althea clasped Eleanora’s hand and gently squeezed it. “You should follow the same rule, Ellie. We cannot become involved personally. Not with these men.”

Eleanora said nothing. Deep inside, she knew Althea was correct—on all counts.

But her heart was telling her the exact opposite.